To Spare a Spider
by Noel Cassidy
Summary: Snipers spend their lives pulling the trigger, or, in Clint Barton's case, letting the arrow fly. After a mission in Russia goes haywire, he has to make a choice. Rated T for slight adult themes. No Ship
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

He was regaining consciousness rather slowly.

Clinton Barton, mostly called Clint or Hawkeye by his friends, had, unfortunately, regained consciousness many times before; it was a hazard of attempting to duplicate circus stunts and loving high places. Usually, he was lying in some contorted position with concerned individuals (circus staff, more often than not) clustered around a doctor who was telling them that no, he wasn't dead, yes, he had a sprain (or a fracture or a break or a hemorrhage or a concussion) and that he should stay off it for a few days (or a week or a month or longer). Not that he'd really paid attention- the moment the wound didn't send debilitating pain up and down whatever appendage it was on, he'd gotten right back to it. That might have been what had prompted Trickshot to teach him how to use a bow in the first place: it gave him something to do that did not carry a high risk of him killing himself.

Geez, he _had_ to have some sort of a head wound to ramble on like this.

Anyway, he normally regained consciousness lying down. He was still a little fuzzy, but it felt as though he was sitting up. He could hear traffic, but, again, it was fuzzy. Come to think of it, everything was fuzzy, like a disorienting drug fuzzy. Not that he (thankfully) had any experience with those kinds of drugs; he had plenty of experience with painkillers, though. Sometimes they made him feel fuzzy-

_No, focus, Clint, focus. Forget the fuzzy._

Forget the fuzzy?

_…I'm gonna ignore that. Focus, think back. What do you remember?_

Red, he remembered red…and black. He didn't think it had anything to do with a circus stunt this time. Er, the unconsciousness that is.

_C'mon, Clint, think!_

He attempted to push past whatever barrier was separating him from sanity. Emphasis on attempted.

_Maybe you should…sleep this off._

When Clint returned to consciousness for the second time, he was very relieved that the thought fuzziness was gone (mostly gone anyway). He could actually assess his situation now.

Body first. He was indeed sitting up, head on chest. Pain levels were equivalent to bruises and sore muscles mostly. Pressure on wrists (which, he noted, were behind him and at about mid-back level) and the fact that he couldn't feel his hands indicated they were tied and had been so for some time. Similar, but less severe, feelings in his lower legs suggested the same for his lower limbs. His feet did not appear to be resting on anything, though that may have been because they were numb. A line of pressure around his abdomen and a matching line around his chest kept him upright against a hard surface, probably a chair.

He could hear traffic, but it was quiet, either because of distance or because he was someplace with really thick walls. It was relatively cool, but not cold. Something about that bugged him, but he couldn't come up with a good reason why.

He cracked open his eyes, confirming that he was tied to a chair. From what little he could see, he was in a dimly lit room of some sort. Oh, and his neck was sore. He tried to lift it, and stopped pretty quickly as the muscles protested. Gently, he rolled his head from side to side, allowing the cramps to loosen up before lolling his head back, enjoying the stretch.

His attempts to remember how he'd gotten into this position only came up with a vague fuzziness (okay, enough with the fuzzy), but he did remember red on black. There was a shape to it…. He wracked his brain, which complained about the activity, but eventually gave up something vaguely rectangular with a slightly squished middle. Like two triangles with their pointy ends together…. What was it called? ...Time, it had something to do with time…minute? No…hour? That sounded better. Hourgl…hourglass?

He frowned. A red hourglass. Why was that familiar? Why-

"I see you're awake." Bitter. Feminine.

A Black Widow.

Oh great. Just great.

* * *

Hey yall!

I own nothing in the Marvel Universe, except for all the movies save Iron Man 2, which I have yet to procure.

Much thanks to Stan Lee for creating one of the most wonderful toys ever.

Much thanks to Chimeara Chameleon for editing for me.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"_The Black Widow?"_

_ "She's something of an enigma: a Russian assassin with a knack for staying under the radar."_

_ Clint looked up from the briefing folder. "How do you know it's a woman?"_

_ "Have you ever known male black widow's to survive mating? That's how the spider got its name." Clint was pretty sure there was more to it than that, but didn't push. The agent briefing him, Coulson if he remembered correctly, reached down pulling up a metallic briefcase._

_ "Point," Barton conceded. "What's that?"_

_ Coulson shoved it over. "See for yourself."_

_ Clint flicked the clasps open, pushing up the lid. A small handle of some sort was sitting in a divot amid black foam._

_ "How come government agencies always use large briefcases to hold small objects?"_

_ The comment pulled and imperceptible smile from the normally stoic Coulson. "Open it; you might find it's a little larger than it looks."_

_ Glancing up at him quizzically, Clint picked it up, liking the way the grip felt. There was some kind of rotary switch under his index finger, a rather stiff button under his middle finger, and a second switch under his index finger. He snapped his arm forward, pulling it back just as quickly. Like Coulson had said, it was a bit larger than it looked: a bow, his favorite size and weight with a sniper scope over the arrow rest. Experimentally, he pulled the string back, pleasantly surprised at the tension._

_ A rather wicked grin erupted on his face. Oh, he was gonna _like_ this. "So where am I going?"_

_ "Murmansk, Russia. It's in the extreme northwest of the country, on the northern shore of the Bay of Kola. You're to assist the ground agents there in neutralizing the Black Widow. In all likelihood, you'll probably be the one to take her down, considering her skills in close combat."_

_ "What do the buttons do?"_

_ Coulson smiled slightly at the other's enthusiasm. "The top one turns the laser sight on and off, the rotary switches arrowheads, while the other button activates certain attachments."_

_ "I think I'm gonna like this." Barton commented, still inspecting the bow._

_ "One last thing and then you can go suit up." Coulson said._

_ Barton looked up at the older man._

_ "Don't underestimate her." Coulson said, dead serious. "We've already lost five agents to her, five _experienced_ agents. I _don't _want to lose another. Understood?"_

_ "Yes, sir."_

_ Barton, you are such an idiot._

He mentally kicked himself for having stayed in one area. He should have moved after he let off that shot. It was something he'd have to remember for next time.

Of course, that was assuming there was going to be a next time.

"I'm surprised. Most men your size wouldn't have woken up so fast." She was behind him. Young sounding, maybe early twenties. What Barton found most interesting was her conspicuous lack of a Russian accent.

"I spent quite a bit of time on painkillers as a kid."

She gave no reply.

Weakly, he flexed his arms and legs, pulling slightly to test the ropes. They were dry, but not even close to breaking. Not that he'd really expected them to be, but it was worth a try.

"I have to say," He commented, "you sure know how to tie a knot."

"I should," she said shortly.

"Where am I?"

"About ten miles outside of Murmansk."

"And I'm here because…?"

The blow that snapped his head forward caught him completely by surprise. Immediately after that he bit back a pained cry as she pushed down on a pressure point extremely hard.

"Let's just say you owe me." She spat quietly before she released him.

He hissed slightly, dropping his head forward to stretch out the sore side of his neck.

"Who are you?" She asked.

It took him a moment before he could answer without his voice shaking too much. "Clint- Clinton Barton."

"You seem to be pretty far from home, Mr. Barton." He heard the slap of leather on wood, probably his wallet dropping onto a table. "Any idea what you were doing?"

"Being an amateur." He said dryly.

"What. Were. You. Doing."

Okay. He'd established she had no sense of humor at least. "I was providing long distance support."

"You're a sniper." It wasn't a question.

"Yes,"

"Army?"

"Not anymore."

"Special Operations, then."

"Sort of,"

"How did you find me?"

"We didn't."

"Barton, if you're lying to me-"

"We didn't know where to look, okay?" Clint broke out into a cold sweat. Man, she was scary.

"I don't believe you." She said simply.

"Look-" He stopped. "What am I supposed to call you?"

She didn't say anything.

"I'm guessing I'm not going to make it out of this alive, so-"

"Natasha. Natasha Romanoff."

Clint was silent a moment. The faceless spider had a name. "Look, Natasha, the other guys picked someone to shadow that they guessed you'd come after. It was just dumb luck you showed up at all."

"So I _was_ you're target."

No one said anything for a few moments.

"What did you mean when you said I owed you?" Clint asked.

She didn't answer him immediately. "What did you know about the man you were shadowing?"

"Nothing. All I had to do was sit on roofs and watch. So I didn't ask."

She snorted softly and muttered something in Russian. "His name is Fedyenka Adrik, born in Nebolinski, a small, relatively isolated town in Midwestern Russia. His parents, Iosif and Tamar, are devout Greek Orthodox and he was expected to join the clergy when he came of age. Which he did not; he ran away and joined the Russian mob."

Clint was tempted to ask how this was related.

"Not that he was any good at it. He skimmed the top off of some 'protection' fees and now Kirill wants his head."

"And he sent you to retrieve it?"

"Considering he knew the locations of most of the storehouses and was fleeing to the authorities for protection and amnesty, it was deemed too delicate to involve the rest of the organization. Now, however, they have to track him themselves, which will cost time and money they don't want to spend."

"So I cost you a bounty. I still don't see-" His head snapped forward onto his chest again.

"Do you know what happens when you get on the wrong side of a mob boss, Barton?" She hissed. "Congratulations, you just succeeded in 'neutralizing' me." She hesitated just half a second, and there was something odd in her voice as she continued. "I may be able to evade them for now, but sooner or later they'll catch up to me.

"Now, the question is what to do with you?"

A cold feeling settled in Clint's stomach. "What do you mean?"

"There is a rapidly dwindling chance that they might leave me alone if I give them you, but you don't seem to know much of anything useful."

That was true enough; he'd only been working at SHIELD for a few weeks, not nearly long enough to know how everything worked.

"Why me?"

"Because it was your shot that alerted Adrik's security detail. You mad me fail." Was it just his imagination, or did the temperature drop a few degrees just then? "I don't like failing."

"I take it it doesn't happen very often."

"Not when it's important."

Translation: not when the price was height enough.

"So what should I do with you, Agent Barton?" She began circling around him. Clint kept his eyes close, focusing on not dissolving into panic.

"I could leave you somewhere and let them find you- you'd provide an ample distraction at the very least. I could kill you myself, and I must admit that would be very cathartic. Or I could simply leave you here to die from the elements. What do you think? It is your life, after all." She stopped directly in front of him.

He looked up at her for the first time. A small, compact build. About five foot five. Medium length dark red hair. A young face, putting her at about nineteen, twenty at the oldest. Hard grey eyes that attested to skill and years past her physical age.

"H-how," He was having trouble keeping his voice steady. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen," she said calmly.

Barton felt sick.

He'd had a child in his sights and he'd almost pulled the trigger.

Again.

* * *

I don't own anything in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. To own any of the characters in it would be tantamount to indentured servitued or prostitution depending on which state you're in.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_The hot afternoon sun seemed to drag itself through the thick, humid air, making it so you could almost taste the acrid gun smoke and human decay._

_ "It was a mercy killing, Hawkeye, what we did here. These people would have died, whether by starvation or enslavement. We did them a favor."_

_ No. N-no, I, I didn't do anybody _any_ favor. I-_ His body reacted to the horror in the only way it could- his stomach began convulsing. He turned his head, leaning as far over as he could as he heaved out bile. He moaned slightly, squeezing his eyes shut in a mixture of repentance and self-loathing. They had been young, far too young, and he'd-

The cold slap of water brought him back to the present. Blinking the water out of his eyes and blowing it out of his nose, he saw Natasha in front of him, holding a water bottle.

"Here," She tipped it, pouring some of the remaining water into his mouth. Clint rinsed out his mouth, mostly removing the acidic after taste, spitting it out onto the floor. He accepted a second drink, swallowing the bitter water.

The next minute or so, he spent with his eyes closed, calming himself, taking slow, measured breaths in through his nose and out of his mouth, reminding himself that all that was in the past. His current superior, while devious (understatement), would never order him to do that. He hoped.

When he was reasonably certain he wouldn't puke again, he looked back up, noting the hint of curiosity.

"What?"

"Nothing. No one's reacted quite that…violently before."

Right. Almost everyone else had reacted with self-soiling fear and horror to the fact that they only had a few seconds to live. He'd reacted with horror, yes, but to her age.

Apparently, the downed hawk had intrigued the spider, maybe gaining a slight reprieve. He'd have to make the most of it.

"If you don't mind me asking, where're you from?"

Natasha looked at him, blinking in very well concealed surprise. "Why do you want to know?" She asked warily.

Clint shrugged, or tried to; being tied to a chair was not the best position to perform that particular action. "It's not as if I have anything else to do."

"Stalingrad," She said after a moment of silence.

"Did you like it there?"

"I don't even remember it. I was born in Stalingrad, but I was raised at a government facility. After the USSR fell apart, they cut me loose."

"So you mad a name for yourself."

"It wasn't like I knew how to do anything else. According to the government, I don't even exist."

"Are you proud of it, what you've accomplished?" Clint asked rather pointedly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Clint didn't say anything, simply locked eyes with her. Judging by the impressive glare she was leveling at him, he assumed that, no, she was not proud of everything she'd done.

_Well, I'm a dead man anyway._ "So you're content?" He pushed. "You're content to let yourself be used by people who could care less who they hurt as long as they get what they want."

"I had nothing!" She yelled. Her tone struck Clint as slightly desperate, as if she was desperately clinging to this excuse. "Nothing and no one. What would you know about it? You're a soldier; all you do is follow orders. This is all I've ever _known_."

"You could've-"

"I had no choice!"

He pitied her, he really did. All her life, she'd never really thought past surviving to the next paycheck. "Tasha," He said gently, almost apologetically. "There's always a choice. Even for a soldier. Someone higher up can tell me to pull the trigger, but when it comes down to the wire, _I'm_ the one who makes the call on whether or not it happens."


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

She just looked at him, and Clint could see the cracked walls around her conscience come crashing down. The guilt, self-loathing, shame, they all struck a chord in him. They were familiar companions, and he had the sudden urge to comfort, to _shield_ her. 'Course that isn't very easy to do when you're tied to a chair.

Then a phone rang.

It was so sudden and such a…_normal_ sound, that they both looked at each other in confusion.

It rang again.

"Is…is that my phone?" He wondered aloud.

It rang again.

Natasha carefully picked it up from the floor like it was something unspeakably disgusting, a dead snake maybe. Yup, it was his phone. _Ohhhhh, this could be _very_ awkward._ It was rather ironic, he reflected in the back of his mind. As little as one minute ago, he would have given a great deal to hear from anyone from SHIELD saying that they had a squad en route to his location. Now, he was praying it wasn't someone he knew, mostly because he had absolutely no idea where to even begin explaining his situation.

Natasha put it on speakerphone, holding it reasonably close to him.

"Barton: who is-"

A chuckle rumbled out. "We wish to congratulate you on your catch." Deep voice, very heavy Russian accent. _Well, at least it's not someone I know…_

"Excuse me?" There was no need to fake sounding confused.

"We know that you have the Black Widow and that she's still alive. We have some…unfinished business with her." Clint noted the phone was shaking.

"I…I'm sorry, what?"

"We will arrive at your location in about four hours. You have until then to make a decision." The line cut off with a click.

The phone clattered to the ground.

"Tasha?" Her face was dead white (_no, don't think of dead, nothing good can come from that_) and her eyes were filled with a stark mixture of shock and gut-wrenching terror. Clint felt his stomach knot.

"I can't fight them." Her lips hardly moved and her voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear it.

"What?"

"It was part of my…training. I can't attack an employer, at least not until after the job's finished."

She was shutting down, Clint realized. Everything had collapsed around her; she was trapped, and so she was curling into herself. There was no way out.

_…Actually…there_ is_ a way…_

Nope, too crazy. He slapped down that idea very quickly.

_…So you're just gonna sit back and let them kill you? Kill her?_

No, but….She wanted to kill me!

_And you almost killed her. Will kill her if you just let this sit._ Ooh, he hated it when his conscience tried to guilt-trip him; it pretty much always worked.

Yeah, but…but-

_No! No buts! You got her into this. You _promised_ yourself you'd never let another child die._

…She's not exactly a child. She has _blood_ on her hands.

_So do you._ Low blow.

…You suck, you know that?

_Face it, you wouldn't survive without me._

He sighted and closed his eyes for a moment, half resigning himself to the fact that this really was the only option.

"Tasha, you have to let me go."

"What?" She stared at him blankly, looking as if she wasn't sure she had heard him correctly.

"You can't fight them, but I can."

Clearly, she had absolutely no clue what was going through his head. But that was okay, because Clint himself wasn't all that sure either. All he knew was that she seemed genuinely ashamed of what she'd done. Of course, she _was_ a spy, so there was always the possibility she was faking. For all he knew, the whole thing might be a set-up, a way for her to accomplish some convoluted plan to gain some inscrutable goal. It didn't seem likely though. She was too…too raw, if that was the right word.

"Tasha, look at me." Clint caught her eye. "I swear to you on my life, they'll only get to you over my dead or incapacitated body."

"But your orders-"

"Were to _neutralize_ the Black Widow. I'm fairly certain that's been done." If he hadn't, he was going to be in _so_ much trouble. As if he cared anymore. "And anyway," He managed to crack a grin. "I don't remember anyone saying anything about Natasha Romanoff."

Her eyes widened, almost comically, as she realized exactly what he was intending to do. Admittedly, it was pretty ludicrous. Defending someone who wanted to kill you was not something the average person would do.

_Since when did you ever want to be considered 'average'?_

The decision was made rather quickly. It was simple for her really, he realized: she was a survivor; this was the only way to survive. Still, there was a slight hesitancy to her step as she moved around behind him.

There was a quick dry sawing noise and a snap. The pressure around his abdomen disappeared, followed a second later by the line around his chest. He slumped forward, and she cut his hands loose as well. He didn't feel anything for a moment as she moved around to free his legs; he simply let his arms drop down to his sided. Clint flexed his arms and then bit back a few choice words he'd picked up in the army as pins and needles and then searing _pain_ rushed down his veins along with the blood. He reflexively curled them into himself, squeezing his eyes shut as a similar but less severe feeling swept through his legs. It took a few minutes for the pain to lessen a bit. He blinked and looked up at her, mouth moving silently.

"Ow," His voice cracked.

The barest hint of a smile flicked across her face. She was worried, probably more worried that he'd renege now that he was free. Not that she had anything to worry about in that area; he didn't willingly break a promise if he gave it.

Gently, he eased himself out of the chair and into a standing position. Pins and needles lurked in his stiff, unused muscles as he stretched them.

_Ohhhh….That feels _sooo_ good._

"Where exactly are we?" He asked, moving around and inspecting the room. Decrepit wooden floor boards squeaked under his weight. He'd always sucked at being stealthy close to a target.

"An abandoned warehouse complex."

"Clint nodded somewhat absently, peering up toward a window through the rafters and support beams. It took a bit of straining and grunting, but he got himself up closer, peering through a filthy glass pane at a nebulous…something that, quite honestly, could have been anything. He turned, peering at the door on the other side of the room, gauging the distance.

"Does the window come out?" He asked suddenly.

"Yes, it should." She sounded a bit confused. "But why would you want it out?"

He ran his finger around the outside of the semicircular frame, narrowly avoiding needle-like splinters. "Having the whole thing missing is a little less suspicious than shattered glass."

"Where do you get that?"

"If you see broken glass, you look for the window it came from, don't you?"

There was a moment of silence, a few light thuds and quiet grunts, and she was next to him, assisting in jiggling the pane out. Ideas were running through Clint's brain as he worked, weighing various strategies, placating several enthusiastic muses who were suggesting ideas that defied physics, mentally arguing with others whose ideas would work except for the absence of a few key factors, ironing out details of relatively fool-proof plans….

"You can't drop it on the ground you know." She commented after a moment, interrupting the genius that was the mind of Clinton Barton (_Eesh. I am nervous_.) "By your own logic, that would give the whole thing up pretty quickly."

One of the muses moaned slightly. Clint continued working out the pane. The pane of thick, rather sturdy glass, now that he thought about it.

"Put it over there." The two of them gently placed it over two the rafters, leaving a sort of bridge (_perch_). Straightening up slowly to keep his balance, Clint gripped the support beam above his head and eased his weight onto the glass. It held. Still clinging to the support beam, he placed his other foot beside the first.

One of his muses snickered. _See? I told you_. A predatory smile grew on his face. Yeah, this would work. With any luck, it would work _beautifully_.

"Did you happen to bring my bow too?"

She nodded, mystified.

"Good. I'm gonna need a few special arrows."

Fifteen, twenty minutes later, they were ready.

All that was left was the waiting.

Being a sniper, he was used to waiting in more miserable (_boring_) conditions. Natasha didn't seem to have much of a problem with it either. The only thing was the fact that it was an approximate three and a half hour wait with nothing to do except stare at the wall. In such conditions, it was nigh impossible to keep the mind from wandering, especially back to dark memories.

Natasha's thoughts seemed to be going along that route, from what little Clint could see. He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently7, offering the comfort of someone who could commiserate (probably more than she knew).

It was about that time a pair of headlights cut the darkness and pulled into the old lot from the road.

Show time.

* * *

To answer a question put to me by Dani9513, Clint is in his early twenties.

Again, I don't own anything _in_ the Marvel Cinematic Universe. More's the pity...

Sorry I haven't updated sooner, but I'm sort of waiting on the rest of my story, as it is in my editor's computer and she _still_ has yet to finish it.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

There were four buildings in the complex, all of them two stories tall at least. Romanoff had holed them up in the building farthest from the road which, incidentally, happened to be the tallest (four stories). Clint was counting on the fact that the height and darkness would keep the mobsters from noticing the missing window and the escape route he had set up using its absence. Of course, he _was_ operating on the assumption that people hardly ever looked up. Meaning the whole plan could fall apart around his (_their_) heads if there was even one observant person in the group, or even if an unobservant idiot looked up in the wrong spot. But from what Natasha had been able to tell him, most of the mobsters she'd met seemed to be trigger happy, but a few clips short of a full magazine.

Their imagination and planning beyond 'ready-aim-fire' was exhibited in their subtlety, or rather, their lack thereof. The door shook under repeated blows by what Clint assumed to be the mobster's own bodies, but the door and it's rotten, rickety barricade of ancient furniture did not splinter into a thousand tiny bits as the result of an explosive charge. Not that it was meant to last long.

Resting on his glass perch, Barton crouches low, eyes narrow, arrow nocked to the string. Already his mind is in combat mode, cold, calculating, analyzing. A sort of measured adrenaline steals over him. Every move, every breath is deliberate, controlled, precise. On the field of combat, there is no room for mistakes; his first error will likely be his last.

_He hates this part; hates how he looks, hates how he feels, _hates_ what if makes him capable of doing. It was such concentration that gave him his first five not-kills._

"Should we help them?" Romanoff asks from her position further back, out of sight (from the outside, anyway) by the window.

"Nah, let 'em tire themselves out; makes for easy pickings later." He says, a grim, almost hungry smile on his face. (_Hate it, _hate _it, _hate it!) His sudden callousness seems to throw her a bit, but if anyone understands cold, unfeeling killing, she would.

_Don't assume; you could lose everything, just like before._

The door shatters open (finally). Barton finds himself dully amused that the door, apparently just as moldy and decayed as the rest of the place, lasted even as long as it did. Twelve men file in, nasty-looking, Cold War era guns leveled at stomach height at the apparently empty room.

Judging by their uncertain postures and sudden freezing, these men had been hired for their muscles; clearly those had seen more exercise than their brains.

During the mission, he'd picked up a decent working knowledge of Russian (he couldn't speak it, though) due to the fact that the translator he'd been equipped with interpreted the words, while the individuals still spoke Russian. As a result he knew what certain basic sentences meant. Still, the translator was a lovely thing to have.

"I don't understand it, Boris. We looked everywhere, how could they not be here?" a lanky one exclaims.

"What? Do you think they grew wings and flew away? No, they're here." Another, heavily built with a pink striped ski cap snorts derisively.

Yet another nods uncertainly. "Before, we did not even know they were guarding Fedyenka." There is a pause during which the speaker scratches his scalp, white dandruff flaking off like snow. "Are you sure they are not magic my friend?"

Pinky smacks Flaky. "You are not my friend, coward, and no, they have no magic. The Widow killed some of them; we found the bodies."

_He resisted the urge to look back at Romanoff, not wanting her to doubt whether or not he will follow through with this, whatever _this_ is. He could not stop his jaw from tightening at his failure to keep his promise to Coulson though. The number of agents lost in apprehending her just went up. Barton pulled the arrow back to his jaw, a finger resting lightly on his jugular, measuring his pulse. He waited patiently, a hawk before the strike._

"And anyway," Pinky continues, "magic or not, they haven't left the Widow anywhere, so we get to…take care of them." The dramatic pause and deep voice gives him away as the mystery caller.

"Yes, yes, that's wonderful, Boris." Lanky snarks. "Unfortunately for us, we can't take care of them is they aren't here. So where do you suppose they are, eh?"

Barton lets go and the arrow buries itself into a crack between the floorboards in the rough center of the group. A click and a small, focused explosive charge shatters the ground, dropping most of the men down the next floor, yelping and shouting oaths in their native tongue. Some the translator doesn't bother to interpret, but he hears vague voices cursing him as the offspring of a cow, snake, and a dog all in one (how that even _begins_ to work, he doesn't know, nor does he waste time worrying about it). The few mobsters thrown out of the blast radius hare already getting up, firing uselessly into the ceiling directly above them.

But Barton is already gone, having moved off the perch carefully and quickly. He's already by the window, another arrow on the string. A heartbeat later, he releases that on as well. It embeds into one of the rafters supporting the glass with a satisfying thud. He detonates the arrowhead, and again an explosive pulverizes the ancient wood and some of the glass, sending the shards and splinters, as well as the unbalanced pane down onto the group, including a few that had run in during the confusion before.

He hears it fragment (after, hopefully, giving someone a concussion) and again, the Russians let lose a hail of angry curses. Barton doesn't hear any of them this time. He is already out the window, slipping down the line he'd shot across to the roof of one of the other buildings earlier, using it as a zip line. Romanoff is already there, shivering as quietly as she could.

"Should we cut it?" She asks.

"No, it'll give away our location."

_He was coming back to himself now; the calculating, analytical somewhat cold mindset was still in place, but the callousness had disappeared. He never enjoyed killing, but he accepted that there were times one had to kill: in defense of oneself, in defense of others….All the emphasis on defense, the fact he was working for an organization whose acronym was SHIELD…oh the irony. But, truth be told, that was one of the appealing parts of it: defense._

They moved as quietly as one could on creaky old roofs. Fortunately, none of the thugs below heard any of the nerve-jarring squeaks; they were too busy speculating on the fates of their companions in the other building. Barton grinned to himself. Lack of discipline would get you every time. _His conscience pointedly cleared its throat_. Uh, right, lack of discipline would get him too, if he wasn't careful.

Unfortunately, whoever was commanding the mobsters was smarter than Barton would have liked. There were guards posted at the end of the hall. He and Natasha were concealed (not exceedingly well) in an open doorway. He was crouching, peering around the frame. Why he was crouching, he wasn't entirely sure, except he hoped it placed him beneath the other's general line of sight. (Judging by the lack of yells and bullets, he was correct.) He slid back around to the inside of the room, frowning in thought.

"So, what was the next part?"

Barton opened his mouth to answer her. "Uh…." He met her expression of utter disbelief with one of sheepish apology. "Sorry,"

"You weren't kidding before when you said you were an amateur, weren't you?"

He threw her a distracted but genuine smile while he pulled off the quiver and tried to remember the different arrowheads he had with him. Low bore explosives, computer interface (when on earth would he use those?), normal pointy ones, grappling hook and line (already used), rubber ones (he was convinced the armory tech had been joking about those, but then again…), larger explosive charges,…he was pretty sure he had a Taser attachment on one….Then he remembered sort of fuzzily (eesh) that the tech had listed off a smoke grenade type attachment. Perfect.

He cycled through the attachments while attempting to come up with a way to get the smokescreen close to the guards. He stopped suddenly, staring at the base of his quiver in incredulity. There were seemingly two normal arrowheads. Carefully, he poked one that looked more plastic-y. It bent.

"What the-he _wasn't joking_?" He spluttered quietly.

Natasha had an expression on her face like someone who knows a joke is supposed to be funny hut had only heard the punch line.

Barton shrugged. "I'll explain it later." He attached the rubber head then cycled through the attachments. Now, how to secure the smoke grenade? _Note to self: bring duct tape next time._

"Do you think you could get me some of the rope from the roof?"

Natasha seemed a bit surprised, but nodded, wordlessly heading back the way they'd come. She returned a minute or so later, a decent length of the thin grappling line in her hand. Barton carefully secured the grenade to the shaft (the whole plan was useless if it literally went up in his face).

He glanced over at Natasha as he slid his improvised trick arrow onto the rest. She clearly had doubts; whether it was about what exactly he was planning to do or if he could make this shot, he wasn't sure. _Well, time for her to see how I earned the nickname 'Hawkeye'._

He eased an eye around the frame, memorizing the location of the guards before drawing back and moving the other side of the doorway. Sting closer to the wall, he drew back, a finger again resting on his jugular. Barton closed his eyes, recalling the layout of the hallway, tweaking his aim accordingly. A heartbeat and a half after opening his eyes, he let go.

Had he been able to actually see his shot, he would have been very proud. As it was he waited until he heard in clatter to the floor, crouching like a cat ready to pounce. He had a normal arrow ready to go. On the mental count of three, he detonated the grenade, springing into the smoke-filled hallway. He loosed one arrow, then a second and waited for either the smoke to clear or for a hail of bullets to scythe out of the cloud.

It was very silent; no shrieks, no cut off curses, nothing. It was…unnerving to say the least.

The smoke dissipated first, revealing two slumped Russians, each with an arrow in their torsos. At the very least, they would be out of the fight.

Barton moved forward, picking up the shaft on the floor, leaving the attachments. He then moved on the two bodies. The two very cold bodies, he belatedly realized. After removing the shafts he turned one over, noticing the lack of blood around his arrowhead and the small dark splotch on the neck. They had been dead long before the arrows struck. Suddenly, the temperature seemed to drop.

There were loud shouts from the floor below, alerting him the mobster appeared to have located them.

"Maybe they saw the rope," He suggested, grabbing her hand a pulling her along behind him. "Come on."

The whole situation was slightly surreal and again, Barton cursed intelligent mob bosses. The thugs appeared to be spaced throughout the entire building, all converging on one area, boxing the two in until they were cornered in a small windowless office. Natasha secreted herself behind the desk (the only piece of furniture left in the room) while Barton waited on one side of the door.

The door blew in. Before he even considered moving, a generally average sized man nonchalantly strode in, slamming the side of his gun into Barton's stomach, leaving him on all fours, gasping for breath. The man then proceeded to almost contemptuously shove the desk over, exposing Natasha, turned around, and walked out.

Immediately after he left, the room was swarming with Russian mobsters. A few of them stood over Barton, while the rest cornered Natasha.

"Well, Widow," One said in Russian, "not so confident now, are we?"

She wasn't looking at him, she simply locked desperate eyes with Clint.

Moving quickly with fumbling fingers, he frantically searched for the attachment he needed. After a second (which felt like forever), he pulled it out and sent it clattering halfway between him and the other man. The thug turned, almost bored to see what annoyance would dare distract him from his gloating, before looking up quizzically at Barton. In minimally accented English, he asked, "And what is that?"

Barton pushed the button down on the grip but he didn't let it pop it. "I guess you could call it a dead man switch." He said, keeping his voice deceptively level. "If I die, or for any reason, loosen my rip, that goes off with the equivalent force of a couple of grenades."

"But if that happens, you won't make it out of here alive." The other pointed out. In all honesty, Barton wasn't sure he _wanted_ to make it out alive.

"Doesn't matter. I don't have anybody waiting for me back home and I've completed my mission." He hoped. "The only thing left is my word, and I'm not about to break that."

The other looked at him unreadibly for a moment, as if measuring his sincerity, before deliberately turning back to Tasha.

The click audibly shattered the silence.

* * *

I own nothing in the Marvel Universe, no matter how much I would wish to.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Clint looked down at his hand reflexively, even as his brain registered the fact that it was the sound of a gun hammer being pulled back.

"I wouldn't recommend that." The voice was male, understated, polite. Clint looked up to see Coulson, immaculately dressed in his suit and tie (didn't the man have any other clothes in his wardrobe?) holding a gun to the mob boss's head. The other mobsters went for their guns.

"I wouldn't recommend that either."

The thugs ignored him and continued t o bring their weapons up. The following ten seconds were filled with nothing but the crack of gun shots.

When Clint opened his eyes, Coulson and the mob boss were still standing in the same position. The state of the thugs around them varied from dead to moaning and clutching whatever part of their body was wounded.

"I tried to warn you." The man sounded almost apologetic.

About thirty Russian police dropped or slid to the ground and about ten or eleven paramedics filed in through the door, securing the mobsters and moving them out. Coulson decocked his gun, returning it to the back of him belt, before helping Natasha up.

Both of them turned to look at Clint, who appeared to be bouncing his head off the floor repeatedly.

"Something wrong?" Coulson asked mildly.

Clint looked up at him, a distinctly sheepish expression on his face. "After all this, I just realized I could have simply called in my location."

Natasha bit back a grin and Coulson gave a slight smile, extending his hand to the other. "Not used to working in groups?"

"No, sir," Clint replied, accepting the offered appendage. Keeping his finger firmly on the button the whole time, he shucked off his quiver, picked up the attachment from the floor and slid it back into the appropriate slot. "How did you figure out where I was?" He asked, finally allowing his finger to relax.

"We tracked your cell phone signal. When we discovered the mob was taking an interest in the same location, we worked with the local police force to take care of it." Clint shouldered his quiver again as Coulson continued. "We need to get you back to the States for debriefing."

Clint looked over at Natasha who was staying quietly out of the way, looking at him with an expression of steady trust. "What about Tasha?" He asked, a note of concern in his voice.

"We can take her back to wherever she wants to go."

"But she doesn't have anything here."

Clint stayed steady under the older man's gaze. "Of course she can accompany you back if she wants. I can't guarantee the Colonel will be very happy, though."

Clint let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Thank you, sir."

CCCCCCCCCCCC

That Coulson knew who Natasha was, Clint never doubted. That he had informed Colonel Fury, he doubted even less. He really wasn't looking forward to explaining the whole situation to him. Fury was intimidating even when he wasn't angry. Clint had a little wiggle room due the the fact that the word 'neutralize' only _implied_ killing the target rather than outright ordering it, but he suspected Fury would _not_ be happy about the fact that he had spared a Russian spy.

Still, he reflected on the plane, his conscience was (mostly) clear. He'd kept his word to Tasha and, with any luck, she might be able to live a semi-normal life. Normal was out of the question for almost everyone SHIELD interacted with.

Coulson cleared his throat quietly, bringing Clint back to the present. "You're probably going to want to change." Clint looked at him for a moment, mystified. He glanced over at Tasha, who appeared to be miming throwing up. Looking down at his pants he noticed a darker splotch on the side of his right thigh. Oh, right.

A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom wearing clean clothes and feeling a little sleepy. He realized he really hadn't slowed down since he'd woken up earlier. Now with all the adrenaline gone, he was going to crash. He sat down, giving Tasha a smile that carried more reassurance than he really felt, and then fell asleep.

* * *

Sorry about the wait, real life became...real life. And I like cliff hangers for whatever reason.

Anyhoo, I don't own anything in the Marvel universe believe it or not, so, excepting the plot, the whole thing belongs to Stan Lee and Disney.

Hopefully the next update will be a whole lot sooner, but for whatever reason, I kind of doubt it.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The debriefing was every bit as awkward as Clint imagined it would be.

"So let me get this straight, _Barton_," Fury said flatly. "You decided, on your own initiative, to spare the Black Widow."

"Yes," Clint confirmed.

"Do you have _any_ idea what could happen because of this?"

"As a matter of fact, sir, I do."

"Then I would love and explanation right now, as to why I shouldn't execute you for treason right now." Yup, Fury was _scary_ when he was ticked.

"I already told you, sir. I believe she truly regrets some of her past actions."

"And I think you're a naïve fool."

"Then I'm a fool. I acted in what seemed to be the best way at the time, and if it comes back to bite, then I will accept the consequences, sir."

Fury looked at him for a moment, his one good eye glaring hard at Clint. "You're willing to stand by that?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

Fury stopped glaring and simply looked at him. Shaking his head, he said, "I think you're in the wrong line of work; you're too trusting." He turned and began walking away. "Actually, I've been looking for someone with her skill set to complete a team."

"Do you have anyone else lined up?"

"As a matter of fact, I do: you."

Clint looked at him in surprise.

Fury nodded. "The whole idea behind this team was to have a small number of people with similar skill sets but differing strengths to be a sort of all-purpose team. You were the first part. Your hand to hand isn't bad, but your eyes more than make up for it because you can hit before anyone knows you're there. I needed someone with better close-up skills. Since no one else will trust her once they find out who she was, we can add her to the team, if she's willing to work for me."

"I'll have to talk to her first."

"Do that later. You look like crap."

Clint laughed ruefully, running a hand through his hair. He _really_ needed a freakin' shower. "Yeah, well, at least the clean clothes removed most of the puke smell."

Fury smiled, a rare event in and of itself. "Congratulations, Agent Barton, you get to keep your job. Keep in mind though: if she's playing you, your career goes straight south."

Clint laughed again. "Isn't that why I'm here in the first place?"

Fury extended a hand. As the other shook it, he said, "Go talk to your prospective partner, then get some rest. And take a shower before you come in tomorrow!"

"Yes, sir,"

* * *

Natasha had been seen into the waiting room by a polite female agent with short black hair, given a cup of coffee and left to amuse herself. No one mentioned she'd be on her own for two hours. The coffee long gone, she was currently amusing herself by imagining every way possible to turn flimsy magazine paper into a reasonable weapon, when the door opened. The man that walked in seemed to have the aura of hidden competence that every experienced spy had, along with an air of danger. He was black, bald and goateed, and, most surprising of all, had an eye patch covering his right eye. Clearly, this was not a man to be messed with.

"Natasha Romanoff?" She nodded. "I'm Colonel Nicholas Fury, director of SHEILD."

Natasha swallowed.

There were two people even the most novice spy had heard of. Stories of daring and impossible escapes, rumors of information stolen from under the noses of alert guards and delivered without incident into enemy hands, legends of mysterious sabotage incidents with only whispered speculation as to who was responsible. Two men, almost myths during the Cold War, going head to head without ever seeing each other: the Winter Soldier and Nick Fury. The only real difference was that Fury had been bold enough to use his real name.

That's _who I've been up against? No wonder I almost died._

"It's an honor, sir." She said, her mouth suddenly dry.

He looked at her for a moment. "I'm sure it is. I need to know whether or not you're serious about this."

Natasha thought for a moment, trying to organize her thoughts a little more. She'd been doing a lot of thinking lately, trying to decide whether or not she really had changed. "I…I think so."

"I'd step very carefully if I were you; if you're not careful, you'll drag Barton down with you."

_That_ brought up a plethora of questions, none of which she would ask Fury.

Fury nodded, as if seeing what he'd expected. "So tell me, what exactly do you think of Barton?"

"He's a good man. Better than most."

"Why exactly would you say that?"

"He made I call, that I couldn't have."

"You respect him? Enough to work for me?"

"Yes," She answered without hesitation.

"Why?"

"I've got red in my ledger. It didn't matter to him."

"It wouldn't really." Fury turned to go, pausing in the doorway. "Look out for him, Miss Romanoff; he's too compassionate for his own good."

She stood in the center of the room, staring absently at a painting on the wall, thoughts nowhere in particular for once.

"Tasha? You okay?" Clint was looking at her, full of concern. Apparently, he'd walked into the room and she hadn't noticed.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

He clearly didn't believe her, but didn't push it. He sat down on one of the couches and she joined him after a moment. "So," he said slowly, "Fury wants to put a team together."

"Yes,"

He seemed bemused. "I didn't ask yet."

"You don't have to."

He cocked his head, curious. "Why?"

"I got read in my ledger; I need to wipe it out."

He nodded, as if he understood. Considering his violent reaction back in Murmansk, he probably did.

They sat in silence for a few minutes until Tasha couldn't stand it anymore. "Why?"

"Hmm?" He looked up.

"Why? You risked your career, staked your _life_, to save a Russian assassin."

He smiled slightly, sadly. "I wasn't planning on it."

"Clint," It wasn't a name; it was a request for honesty.

He was silent for a moment. "Back in Murmansk, you asked me if I was in the army.

I joined the army when I was eighteen- I guess I wanted to take my skills and do something worthwhile with them. Anyway, about six months after boot camp, I was assigned to a small squad protecting a tiny African village on the Congo border. I'm sitting up in my sniper nest, 'bout a mile away, and my CO calls in an attack. Anything that moves is hostile. So I line up five targets and take them out. All headshots, instant kills."

She could see where this was going. "They weren't hostile were they?"

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, rubbing them. "Children, all under ten years old.

"I didn't find out about that until the next day. I'm up in my nest, when I get jumped by ten people. Before I can even start thinking straight, there's ten corpses around me. Found out later they were the parents of the children I'd shot, out for blood. The oldest couldn't have been much older than seventeen."

Well, then. That explained the puking.

"We were only there a day after that. Two days, and I'd single handedly wiped out half the village.

"I confronted my CO after he offered me rather snide congratulations. Found out he was behind everything; he'd even told the kid's parents where to find me. So like a naïve idiot, I told him I'd turn him in. He just laughed and told me to go ahead and try; said he had friends in the tribunal department. He also told me that if I turned him in, he'd make sure I was brought up for war crimes.

"So when I was rotated back to the States, I put in a request to be discharged. My file came across Fury's desk, and, well, you can probably guess the rest."

The silence that followed was a comfortable one.

Natasha wrinkled her nose slightly. "You stink. I hope you're planning on taking a shower before coming in tomorrow."

Clint let out a noise that was half-way between a groan and a laugh. "Not you too! I thought partners were supposed to be nicer than that."

She smiled at him.

"Partners?" He asked, extending his hand.

"Partners," She responded firmly as they shook.


End file.
